


Runs Red

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Gore, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Monsters, Southern Gothic, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Fleeing the coast with a hurricane at their back, Dean, Sam and Castiel take refuge in what looks to be an abandoned home in the woods, hoping to hide until the storm passes. What looks to be completely ordinary, though, quickly turns to disaster as the winds begin to strengthen, and the three of them are left in the dark as to what is draining their life away, breath by breath, in the rain.





	Runs Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 2017 SPN Case Fic Mini Bang challenge.

 

Thunder sounds for the third time in a minute, echoing through the interior of the Impala with a sickening crackle. On either side of the two lane road, the pines begin to buckle and sway, bent at impossible angles as the wind whips through the forest, black clouds blotting the sky. The wipers are no use, Dean realizes; even at the highest setting, they’re no match for the rain pelting the windshield, almost hard enough to crack glass. He hasn’t seen anyone on this stretch of US 84 for the last thirty miles, probably because everyone else has enough sense not to drive in the middle of a hurricane. Apparently, they evacuated too late.

A sentiment which Sam voices after the next lightning strike, too close to the car for comfort. Somewhere near the road, Dean swears he hears a tree splinter. “Wasn’t supposed to be here this soon,” Dean grunts, white knuckling the steering wheel hard enough to squeak the leather.

“It took a turn at the last minute,” Castiel adds from the backseat, his arms propped up on the bench. His eyes, like Dean’s, are locked on the storm, fear beginning to dance across his face when a limb starts to bow over the roadway. “We need to pull over.”

“Not now,” Dean says, terse. As much as he wants to, they need to keep driving and at least make headway to get ahead of the storm. Though at the rate it’s moving, it might follow them all the way to the Carolinas. “What, you don’t have faith in me?”

“Not really,” Sam remarks. “But I’m gonna have to agree with Cas.” He sits up like he plans to jump out of the passenger door, ignoring Dean when he shoots him a glare. “We don’t have a choice, it’s either pull over or let the storm do it for us.”

Dean huffs. “We can still—”

“Listen to your brother, Dean,” Castiel scolds, fisting the fabric over Dean’s shoulder as lightning strikes again, the sky above them beginning to rotate. “There’s a pulloff ahead. Take it.”

He doesn’t like it, not one bit. He’s driven in worse weather and made it through, but the farther he goes and the greener the sky gets, the more his heart begins to race. Unfortunately, Sam and Castiel are right; better to get out of the storm than to die in it. That thought in mind, Dean takes a right onto an unmarked dirt path, leading directly into the forest. Here, the rain falls at half the rate it did on the road, but the wind whips even louder, speeding through the trees and pushing the Impala off to one side on several occasions. Sam and Castiel remain quiet while Dean maneuvers the vehicle through the mud, now littered with small branches and pine straw, until they meet a roadblock well into the woods.

At some point, a tree fell during the storm, or maybe before that; either way, the root system is three feet into the air to their left, and the massive trunk lays strewn across the drive, offering nothing but an obstruction and increased nerves. “We’re gonna have to walk,” Dean says, thunder cracking over the rain.

In his haste, he struggles to unbuckle himself, jerking the seatbelt until Sam grabs his wrist, keeping him still. “Breathe,” Sam says, more of an order than a suggestion. Dean follows along anyway and inhales, holds it until he can let his anxiety bleed out, breath by breath. By the time he has his bearings and he’s no longer attempting to strangle himself with his seatbelt, Castiel is already out of the car and grabbing their bags from the trunk, throwing both of their duffels over his shoulder. He knocks on Sam’s door after he’s finished and ushers him out, motioning Dean to do the same.

This is stupid—this is beyond idiotic. There’s a hurricane bearing down overhead, they’re stuck in the middle of God knows where Georgia, and Castiel wants them to walk in it. His reasoning: “If we sit still, we risk a tree falling on top of us, especially here.”

 _You’re the one who suggested this_ , Dean wants to say; he swallows his words instead and pushes his way out of the car, keys in his pocket. Locking the doors won’t do him any good, but he does it anyway and jogs ahead, catching up to Sam and Castiel up the road. Together through the mud, they run further inland, several times stopping to either climb over a felled tree or jump over broken limbs, narrowly dodging the ones that topple at their backs. _God_ , he prays, _let Baby make it_.

It takes another minute before they make it past the treeline, somehow managing onto a small clearing, undamaged by the storm save for two fallen limbs pointing towards a large home, smoke scorched and derelict, the front porch nearly collapsing in on itself. Two stories tall, it bears broken out windows and shingles barely clinging to the roof, its formerly white walls muddied with age and a previous fire. _Shelter_ , Dean thinks—he better not be hallucinating.

“Are we all seeing the same thing?” Sam shouts over the storm, even louder now; if Dean listens hard enough, he swears he can hear a roar.

“Get inside,” Castiel warns. He’s already running by the time Dean processes the words, and by Sam’s side, they rush through the unlocked front door, slamming it behind them. The lock catches, thankfully, and for the first time since they left Jacksonville, it’s quiet. Or, quiet as it can be; the wind still whips around them and the rain pelts against the windows, but they’re safe here, under an unbroken roof.

Castiel drops their bags by the staircase at their front, startling Dean from his thoughts. Now that he can see—and breathe, for that matter—he takes in the layout, the dining room to their left empty save for a few chairs, and the living room on their right featuring a moth-eaten Chesterfield. Hideous green and white wallpaper decorates the walls, ornate in a way that went out of style in the thirties. “Feel like I just stepped into a time capsule,” Dean mutters. He runs his hands through his hair until he shakes the rainwater free, Sam doing the same; Castiel shrugs out of his coat and jacket, revealing a water-soaked shirt and even more mangled tie.

They look like wet dogs, all things considered.

Sluggishly, Dean drags their duffels into the living room and promptly seats himself on the couch, ignoring the wave of dust that wafts up from the cushions. He’ll sneeze if he thinks about it; the house is already giving him hives as it is, and he’s the only one that notices. Or cares, really—Sam is probably thrilled to be dry. Castiel, however, looks pensive, his brow furrowed like he’s listening for something Dean can’t hear. “What is it?” Dean asks, scratching at his collar. There better not be ticks.

“There’s something… here,” Castiel says, slow, turning his eyes to the ceiling. Great, just what Dean wants to hear, the house is haunted. “I can’t pinpoint its location, but it’s here.”

“It’s an old house,” Sam offers, peeling his shirt off and rifling through his bag for a towel and a new one. “Maybe it’s residual, or the air pressure’s dropping.”

All likely scenarios, none of which Dean wants to venture an answer towards. For now, he’s glad he’s alive, haunted house or otherwise. “As long as it doesn’t try to kill us in our sleep, I’m golden,” he says. Grunting, he pushes off the couch, water squishing out of his socks and shoes as he stands. Gross, but at least it’s water this time. “Think this place’s got a kitchen?”

Sam shrugs and tugs a new shirt on. Dean makes it out of the room with his duffel before he goes for his pants.

-+-

_Hour One_

The house, as it turns out, has a completely barren kitchen and a den in the far corner, every cabinet and shelf and storage space empty save for dust, termites and a dead raccoon carcass. They shouldn’t be here for long; a few hours, and the storm will blow over and hopefully they’ll be able to make it back to the main road before hunger starts becoming a concern. There’s still an entire case of crackers in Sam’s bag, if he hasn’t plowed through them already. It’s their emergency stash, only reserved for last resorts; this shouldn’t be the exception.

The sink faucet offers a slow trickle when he turns the cold handle, its mate sitting in the basin in two pieces. Whatever comes out is brown and muddied, most likely salmonella ridden. Rain water will probably work fine if they need it, if he can find a bowl or a bucket, something he can set on the porch while they wait.

Several kerosene lamps sit in the den, one on the table beside a collapsed couch, another two placed on the mantle, bookends to a shattered mirror. One in hand, Dean returns to his duffel and fishes around for a matchbook, halfheartedly ignoring Castiel, still staring at the ceiling. “It’s not gonna change,” he chides, afterwards letting out a triumphant noise when he finds the package. He strikes one before tossing the box back atop his clothes, carefully placing the matchstick beneath the wick and letting it catch. Pale yellow light engulfs the lamp soon after, and Dean extinguishes the match and stomps it out with his foot.

It’s not until he stands and holds the lamp up by the handle that he realizes what Castiel is doing; solid white eyes look to the water stained ceiling in awe, his mouth agape, his jaw and cheeks accentuated by the fire light. “Cas,” Dean says, urgent, a hand to Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel doesn’t respond no matter how many times Dean yells, no matter how rough he gets, until a new streak of lightning blazes across the sky, thunder rattling the house mere milliseconds after. After that, Castiel sucks in a harsh breath and stumbles backwards, irises blue once again, bloodshot.

Weird—downright weird is the only thing Dean can think of to describe it. “Hey, hey,” Dean calls, taking Castiel by the elbow to lead him to the couch. Castiel collapses into the cushions on unsteady footing, one hand clutching his drenched shirt in a haphazard attempt to undo the buttons. “Cas, look at me,” Dean urges again; setting the lamp aside, he takes Castiel’s hands in his own and holds them still, waiting for the tremors to stop. “Cas, c’mon.”

“Something’s here,” Castiel wheezes, eyes turning to the stairwell. Dean follows them with caution, fully expecting to see some sort of apparition or someone standing there, brooding; he’s met with nothing instead, the rain his only company. “You can’t see it?”

Dean blinks, looks back to Castiel with fear in his eyes. Castiel is paler than ever, like his very essence has been stripped from his bones. “…I don’t see anything, man.”

Slowly, Castiel exhales, his breath coming out as cold mist. Possible spirit, but nothing that’s visible to him. “It’s black,” Castiel mentions. “But it’s gone now.”

 _Great_. Not only does Dean not know what he’s dealing with, but it’s apparently invisible to humans. And Sam is nowhere in sight. “Where’d Sam go?” Dean asks offhand as soon as Castiel has wrestled back his sanity, his head in his hands.

“Upstairs,” Castiel says. “He was looking for the bedrooms.”

Bedrooms—he can deal with that, as long as the damn thing isn’t planning to try and feed off them in their sleep.

Reluctantly, Dean leaves Castiel on the couch and ascends the stairs in the foyer, creaking under his weight; thankfully, none of the panels have rotted through, though some areas remain spongy under his boots, threatening to give way with even the slightest bit of force. Above, the roof groans with the rushing wind, the trees beyond the hall windows bowing, limbs twisting in horrid angles. “Should’ve left yesterday,” Dean concedes and lets out a sigh at the top of the stairs.

Hand to the bannister, he stops to gather himself and reaches the carpeted landing, soaked through with black mold and God knows what else. Water squashes with each step, both from the shattered windows and the leaking roof, beginning to bleed water down the east wing. Sam, thankfully, is on the other side of the house, rummaging through a rolltop desk for anything salvageable besides moth eaten papers and what looks to be a woman’s dress, yellow and riddled with holes. Why that was in a bottom drawer, Dean doesn’t even want to ask.

“There’s nothing up here,” Sam says, tossing the dress onto the bed in the corner, frame collapsed and mattress contents spilling onto the hardwood. He turns and hands Dean a newspaper, half a name and date visible on the front page, alongside the words ‘INT HORRORS.’ “I checked all the bedrooms and came up with squat. Looks like the last owner moved out in 1911.”

“Sure ’s hell smells like it,” Dean adds. He takes the newspaper with caution, afterwards overcome with the urge to scrub his hand clean; a termite falls from the time-worn pages, landing near Dean’s boot. Given the age of this place, termites are the least of his problems. “We’re all gonna get asbestos poisoning by the time we leave.”

“If that’s all we get,” Sam grouses, eyes to the ceiling, “then it’ll be a miracle.”

Outside, a tree crashes, close enough for its branches to scrape down the exterior wall, followed by a resounding thud. “There’s something wrong here,” Dean comments over the noise, more oblivious than he should be; adrenaline is the sole thing keeping him awake now, keeping his body from crashing into a pile and sleeping for the rest of the day. After all the running he’s done since Jacksonville, he deserves at least a nap, preferably somewhere dry and not waterlogged.

“You’re telling me,” Sam says. Dean follows him from the room and back into the hall, down a few feet to another door. A few rough shoves from Sam’s shoulder breaks the lock, the door swinging open to reveal an equally sparse bedroom, this one however with a gaping hole in the floor directly over what looks to be a garage. To Dean’s horror, a wrought iron bed sits atop a destroyed Model T, a tree growing up inside the two, its leaves ticking the edges of the second floor landing.

 _What did we just walk into_? Dean thinks before shivering himself alert, wrapping his arms over his chest. This room is cold, enough for his breath to come out in a fine mist. Maybe the storm is dropping the temperature—or maybe there really is something here, something he can’t see. “Something possessed Cas,” he blurts and steps away from the hole.

Sam nearly gives himself whiplash at the rate he turns around, the force almost sending him into the garage. “Something what?” he practically shouts, words drowned out by thunder. “What can possess an Angel?”

“Obviously something above our pay grade,” Dean shrugs. “I don’t wanna leave him alone, not with this… thing here. You shoulda seen him, the only thing he didn’t do was start speaking in tongues and crawling up the walls.”

Sam hums and quirks a brow, afterwards glancing over Dean’s shoulder, presumably at the window and the black sky outside. “Why do I feel like you’re exaggerating?”

“You think I’m bullshitting you?” Dean scoffs. “You can ask him yourself, I left him on the couch.” Against his will, but hopefully Castiel is still there and not running naked through the clearing. “Did you find anything downstairs while you were doing rounds?”

“There’s a spare bedroom off the den,” Sam offers. “No mattress, but I think we’ve slept in worse.”

“Long as the floor’s there, I’m game.” Again, Dean shivers, his breath still coming out chilled; a headache begins to burn behind his eyes, both from pressure and waning consciousness, the high of flight beginning to fade. The last thing he wants is to sleep on rotted paneling, but like Sam said, they’ve been in more dire situations with even less.

At least this place has a roof.

-+-

_Hour Two_

Castiel isn’t faring any better; after making their way from the deluged upstairs into the ground floor bedroom, he’s done nothing but lay with his head propped up on Sam’s duffel bag with his hands over his eyes, chanting something unintelligible while Dean and Sam sort through whatever weapons they have.

Which, as it turns out, isn’t much. A few scattered salt rounds, Dean’s sawed off, Ruby’s knife, and a silver ax with a cracked handle, a result of their run through the woods. A thorough inspection of the house and the downstairs fireplace turned up nothing but an iron fireplace poker, and the garage yielded century’s old car parts and what most definitely did not look like a thigh bone trapped under the bed.

Still, if the place is actually haunted, a part of Dean might die if he has to burn that wreck of a car under there.

Absently, Dean counts and recounts the shotgun shells while the rain pours, even harder now, a branch banging on the window. This one, at least, is intact, but barely; webbing streaks from the corner up the pane, just one good blow away from shattering and letting the rain pour in. Sam sits with his back to the door, thumbing through some app on his phone, no doubt the weather, with whatever service there is in the middle of nowhere. One bar, and it’s spotty, but it’s enough for them to find out what’s going on.

“The hurricane took a last minute turn,” Sam says, turning his phone over to Dean to display the radar and the absolutely massive storm moving off the Georgia coast, “but we’re still getting the outer bands. If we’re lucky, we’ll be in the clear in a few hours.”

“If we make it that long,” Dean huffs, flicking over a round. It rolls across the floor a short distance before he retrieves it, lining it up again. “With our luck, we’re gonna make it out and find Baby with a tree in her windshield.”

That’s one thing Sam can’t disagree on—Baby’s fate remains with the storm and her will, and unfortunately, the image of her totaled by the forest is ingrained in Dean’s mind every time he closes his eyes. _It’s just a car_ , he tells himself, gritting his teeth; _you can replace a car. You can’t replace a life._

That doesn't make it feel any better, though.

“Did you look to see where we are, or if there’s any lore about this house?” Dean asks after a pause, afterwards looking up to see Castiel staring up at the ceiling, arms outstretched, palms facing up. He’s quiet now, though haggard, the dark circles under his eyes growing deeper by the minute. Whatever it is, it’s feeding off him, residually or physically. Neither option sounds pleasant.

“We’re outside Waycross,” Sam supplies. He spends a long minute typing into the browser, his eyes furrowed in the light emanating from his screen. In the dark, his determination is terrifying, every line accented by bright blue, his eyes gleaming white. Dean’s stomach flips, uneasy. “It’s unincorporated, so I can’t find much about the locals, but there’s an urban legend.”

“Great,” Dean snorts. Just what he wants to hear, some kids claiming Bigfoot hangs out near the swamps. “Who’s crying wolf now?”

Sam makes a noise, somewhere between a cough and a gag; at the tail end of it, he ends up dropping his phone and hacking up phlegm onto the floorboards, dark in the pale blue light. “Sam,” Dean calls, and before he can stop himself, he’s across the room on his knees, knocking over the shotgun shells in his wake; he holds Sam’s face in his hands, eyeing the spot of what looks to be blood near his lip and the drop spilling from his nose, all with wide eyes, frantic.

“There’s something here,” Sam sputters, barely managing to keep himself from coughing up another round of God knows what.

“Cas,” Dean half shouts; half of him expects to hear wingbeats or a hand to his shoulder, or at least some acknowledgement. All he gets is Castiel beginning to chant, now more urgent, like he’s trying to fend something off. Whatever it is, Dean doesn’t want to see it, especially if it’s in the same room as them. “Sammy, look at me.”

“It’s by the window,” Sam garbles, body seizing under Dean’s hands.

This might as well be a nightmare. Sam is close to vomiting blood in his hands, Castiel is sitting up and spouting off something akin to an exorcism by the wall, and in front of the window is a formless black mass, twisting and writhing the longer Dean looks at it, his heart threatening to jump from his throat. “They’re not yours,” Dean shouts, ignoring the faint trickle of something dripping from his ear. He can’t hear—not the rain, not the wind, not even Castiel, his mouth moving faster now, practically screaming.

“Dean,” Sam mouths when Dean looks back at him, his lips red. “Dean, it’s—”

Then it’s over. All at once, the pressure formerly settled on Dean’s shoulders ceases and he sucks in a breath, asbestos and mold filled, but air nonetheless. Sam scoots back into the door and wipes blood off on his sleeve, shivering along the way. And Castiel—Castiel is unconscious, passed out on the floor with eyes wide open, a hand reaching out to Dean. His pulse in his wrist still beats under Dean’s fingertips; he’s alive, at least. Alert is another question.

Roughly, Dean swallows, looking to Sam. “What were you saying about urban legend?”

-+-

“It’s not a ghost,” Sam announces shortly after, both his phone and Dean’s plugged into portable chargers; they’ll need the power, for both light and researching whatever it is that’s trying to kill them in the middle of a hurricane. “It can’t physically manifest itself into anything, and as far as I could tell, the room temperature didn’t drop when it was in the room.”

“It’s balls hot here,” Dean shoots back. “It’d take at least five of ‘em for any temperature drop to register.”

“Probably,” Sam shrugs. He resumes typing on his screen, now pacing in front of the door while Dean works to keep Castiel conscious, his eyes growing dimmer by the minute. “Is he okay?”

“‘M fine,” Castiel slurs; abortively, he attempts to push Dean’s hand away, ending in failure. Whatever this thing is—this monster—it’s trying to kill them, specifically Castiel. Sam is next, Dean figures; once they’re finished off, it’ll take him and leave their bodies to rot until the next bystander happens upon them in days, months, maybe decades. Not a pleasant thought—and Dean won’t let it happen, no matter the cost.

In an attempted show of strength, Castiel struggles to sit up, at least until his arms give out; Dean catches his head before it collapses onto the duffel, nearly colliding with whatever electronics he has stashed in there. “Okay, you’re done,” Dean asserts, much to Castiel’s chagrin. He attempts to speak, only to have Dean cut him off. “No, Cas, you’re done. Whatever this is, it’s inside you, and it’s… Shit, I don’t even know what it’s doing to you.”

“I’m gonna have to agree with him,” Sam joins in. Again, Castiel whines low in his throat, throwing his head back in defiance. Cautious of the flooring, Sam kneels next to Castiel and places his hand over Castiel’s forehead. He’s probably just as clammy as Dean felt before, his temperature rising by the hour. The humidity and the storm aren’t helping things, either. The longer they sit there, the more Castiel’s heart rate skyrockets and Sam’s nose bleeds, his shirt sleeve dyed bright red from where he constantly wipes it dry. “You’re not getting any better by trying to fight it.”

“I have to,” Castiel grunts; abruptly, he reaches up to tug at his tie, his eyes pinched tight.

“Here.” Dean pushes his hand out of the way and with nimble fingers, he undoes the knot, sliding the fabric through Castiel’s collar and pulling it free. Undoing the top two buttons seems to ease whatever ails him, Castiel finally sucking in a clear breath, no longer muddled by snot or whatever else is in his lungs. “Cas,” Dean says afterwards, tapping Castiel’s cheek. “Cas, c’mon, you gotta wake up.”

“It’s not a ghost,” Castiel wheezes. He looks between Dean and Sam, ultimately settling on Sam, his concern deepening, brows furrowed. “You’re… bleeding.”

Once again, Sam wipes his nose, only serving to smear blood across his cheek. He’s not getting any better either; blood is beginning to well from his tear ducts, but Dean won’t admit that out loud. Whatever’s happening, it’s gotten to Sam too, its teeth not fully sunk in. But it’ll get there—it’ll take Castiel, and afterwards Sam, all while Dean is forced to watch his family die before his eyes.

There has to be something. Lore or legends or something, anything.

“It’s the air pressure,” Sam lies. “You should see me when it rains.”

If anything, Castiel only grows more skeptical, his lips turning down. “I’m sorry I can’t fight it,” Castiel says after a sigh, turning his head to the wall. “I tried, I just…”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Dean asserts; he smooths his hand over Castiel’s forehead, drawing his thumb across sweat damp skin until Castiel falls into his touch, eyes slipping closed.

“We’ll figure this out,” Sam adds, somewhat enthusiastically. Whether it’s for Castiel’s benefit or for his own, Dean isn’t sure. “We’ll find something, and we’ll get you out of here, alright?”

It takes a second, but Castiel eventually nods, his chest deflating with his exhale. Slowly, he draws his hands up to rest on his stomach, his dress shirt still wet from the rain and sweat with the fever he’s running. Whatever this is, they need to find it fast, before whatever’s left of Castiel’s life is gone and they’re left to drag a lifeless corpse across state lines. _How is his Grace not fighting this off_? _What if it’s feeding off his Grace_?

With determination, Dean swallows down the unanswered questions and turns to Sam, who’s busy trying to plug his nose with three tissues from a half used pack in his bag. A temporary fix already beginning to fail. “What was the thing you found?” Dean asks again, glancing down to Castiel and placing his hand over his wrist, solely to let him know that he’s still there, that they haven’t left him alone.

“Okefenokee legend says this land is possessed,” Sam says, looking down at his screen; in the light, Dean’s stomach twists with the sight of the reddened tissues and Sam’s bloodied face. “No burial ground, but there’s an account of something having lived here before the previous owners took residence.”

“Like what?” Dean asks. “What’re you thinking, black magic, curses—”

“A possible soul eater,” Sam says. Which—great. Soul eaters. The last thing he wants right now is a soul eater, let alone trying to kill one while two thirds of his party is incapacitated. Castiel can’t even stand, and Sam is a gentle breeze away from falling over. “But it doesn’t make sense. The one we killed before, we saw things, visions. The most we’ve seen here is a black… thing.”

“And soul eaters can’t possess you,” Dean adds; he squeezes Castiel’s wrist for emphasis, earning a pained hiss, faint. “So… close, but no cigar.”

Sam nods. “I can’t find any names, but there’s several accounts on cryptid blogs about this place.”

“You’re dawdling,” Castiel mumbles, earning a snort from Dean and an eye roll from Sam. “Can it grow limbs?”

 _What_? What the hell kind of monster can grow limbs? From what Dean can tell, the thing doesn’t even have a face, let alone floating arms. The look Dean shoots Sam doesn’t make him move any faster, Sam more concentrated now on plugging his nose while he speaks; any more, and blood will leak from his ears. “One person said by the time they escaped, it had a leg and an arm, and half of her own face.”

Dean can’t hide the shiver the image gives him, of a wafting black mass with half a body. “So what, whatever it’s doing, it’s…”

“Stealing your life,” Castiel chimes. Both Dean and Sam turn to him, Castiel’s bloodshot eyes now turned to the ceiling, red tears forming in the crease of his nose. Whatever pain he’s in, Dean can’t even begin to fathom it. “It’s called a Morta. It’s a close cousin of soul eaters, but rather than driving its victims insane, it prefers to feed on them alive. The longer they suffer, the more time it has to give itself a body.”

“And if it has a body?” Sam asks, glancing to Dean; Dean hasn’t once looked away from Castiel, at the blood now dripping down his cheek and into his hairline.

“Then it leaves,” Castiel mutters. “They’re not a creature, per se. More of a…” He stops to cough. “A manifestation. Most likely, the house has been cursed.”

Dean blinks once, twice, before it finally clicks in his head. The house—the actual house is the creature, their only form of refuge from the storm raging outside. And it’s not like they can leave, either; if they step foot outside, they’re on their own, their only other form of protection being that of the Impala, if she’s even intact. But if they stay inside, they’ll all die, Castiel subjected to his Grace being eaten, Sam dying from blood loss, and Dean left to watch them all fall, unable to do a thing about it.

“But there’s gotta be some way to kill it,” Dean blurts. Gently, he pulls his hand away and drops it into his lap, now looking down at the floor. Knowing their fate, he can’t even look them in the face, knowing this is how he’ll remember them in death. “What, do we gotta torch the place?”

“It’d make sense,” Sam says. “If it’s possessing the house, then burning it down would be just as effective as burning someone’s bones.”

“The house is soaked though,” Dean rebuts.

“There’s enough kindling indoors to facilitate it,” Castiel grunts. “It’s your choice. Wait for the storm to let up, or we escape in the rain. Either way…”

“We’re fucked, basically.” Both Sam and Castiel sigh in acceptance, leaving Dean to stare up at the ceiling and pray to whoever’s listening that they get out of this alive and intact, and that some disembodied monster doesn’t kill them in the process.

There has to be a way to escape. Blinking up at the rotten ceiling, Dean runs the plan through his head. Get both Sam and Castiel out of the house and onto the porch, and retrieve the forgotten kerosene lamps from the kitchen. Throw one into the hall and hope enough oil catches fire to set the entire house ablaze. Leave, find the Impala, and wait the storm out while hoping a tree doesn’t fall on top of them all.

It sounds simple; how it’ll work, Dean has no clue. “I’m gonna go get the lamps,” Dean announces and pushes himself up to stand. “Can you walk, Sam?”

It takes a second, but Sam nods. “The back door’s not far from here. What do you have planned?”

“Only thing I know we can do,” Dean states. “Burn this hellhole down.”

-+-

The first thing Dean does after he leaves the room is vomit red onto the wood paneling, bracing himself on the wall with one hand over his stomach. Around him, the room spins, and even holding himself up is barely enough to keep from falling into his own sick. Air pressure, probably, or the general unease that’s filled him since stepping foot inside the house. But that doesn’t explain the blood or the sudden onset of tinnitus, his head threatening to vibrate off his shoulders.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, spitting scarlet.

The den is barely ten feet to his right, but even that distance feels like an eternity, the floor warping under his feet, vision black around the edges. He can do this. They need the other kerosene lamps, and the matchbook Dean left with his belongings. As of right now, both are out of reach, and the room is spinning. In the background, something laughs, disembodied and grotesque the louder it gets.

It’s his vision that’s black, Dean tells himself, taking his first step forward over the bloody puddle. It’s not the shadows he sees lurking in the kitchen and at his back, nor are they in the corners of the den, illuminated by the light pouring in through the windows. “How many people’ve you done this to?” Dean asks the air, boots squishing atop the soaked carpet. The storm’s roar greets him instead, lightning cracking outside. There, by the fireplace, he sees it, the faint outline of what looks to be a hand—Sam’s hand, for Christ’s sakes—emanating from the black mass, curled into a fist.

As terrifying as it is, Dean can’t help but grin, the only thing he can do to keep himself from hurling. “What’re you gonna do?” he taunts, kneeling before the lamps and slowly reaching out, cautious all the while. He swears the thing is watching him, twisting and writhing as it moves. It would be easy to fling the lamp at it and run, but Sam and Castiel are still inside, and he can’t risk putting them in more danger than he’s already done. _We should’ve stayed in the car_.

The ringing in his ears won’t stop, long lingering after thunder crackles, the house vibrating. From the weather or from the monster’s anger, Dean doesn’t know. Either way, it’s terrifying, knowing he’s trespassed into its territory and it’s exacting its revenge, and there’s nothing he can do. Nothing, as long as Sam and Castiel are suffering in the other room, as long as blood pours from his own ears and begins to stain his neck, all the way down to his shirt.

Through the pain, Dean continues to smile, gritting his teeth. The nausea is almost overwhelming, and it takes all his strength to finally grasp the lamps and hoist one high, just in time to see it approach him at what has to be a millisecond’s pace, his vision swarmed in black. For a long second, blindness becomes a real possibility, until he realizes where he is.

Thunder drowns out his hiss, somehow suppressed while the thing pets his face with its stolen hand, coaxing him to open his mouth. “No,” he growls through his teeth, his knuckles white. Somehow, it’s managed to blot out the light from the windows, Dean’s entire existence boiled down to whatever torture he’s provided. Every inch of his skin itches, an attempt to force him to give in, to just accept it. He’s easier prey, anyway—Sam and Castiel can fight; Castiel can burn the entire property down if Sam can just get him outside.

Meanwhile, Dean… Dean’s dead weight. Regrets bog him down at his core, his fear of the unknown seeping into his existence, bleeding into the creature that’s threatening to force its way into his body against his will. Part of him wants to let it, solely to ease his suffering, to take away the pain and to give Sam and Castiel time. None of that stops him from fighting back, though, his teeth bared in a vain attempt to separate himself from the mass. “This is how you do it?” he mumbles behind closed lips. If there’s anything left that he can do, he can fight, if only to save his family. “Sit on people till they give up?”

Dean swears, he feels it say _yes_.

That’s the only motivation he needs to push himself away—only, he isn’t the one to do it. A hand, flesh and blood and real, yanks him out. The black mass separates, only after someone throws a lit match at it; before it dissipates, though, Dean swears he sees it with his bare leg.

He doesn’t expect to throw a punch the second he escapes; thankfully, Sam blocks him with a bloodied hand, his other pinching his equally red nose closed. “Did you see that?” Sam asks, much to Dean’s hysteric amusement.

“No shit,” he wheezes. Blood threatens to rise up his throat again; by a miracle, he forces it back down and hands one lantern to Sam. “It’s killing us.”

Frantically, Sam nods. “Cas is getting worse,” he supplies; it only serves to deepen both Dean’s guilt and his desire to haul ass. “It’s getting into his Grace.”

 _Well that’s not good_. “Get me my matchbook,” he says, as much of an order as he can muster before he promptly retches on Sam’s shoe. “Now, Sam.”

-+-

Time moves slower here, Dean thinks, watching his footfalls. Around him, the rain pounds, the wind roars at its peak, and all Dean can hear is the sound of his own breathing and Sam tending to Castiel, soft pleas of ‘c’mon, you can do it,’ and, ‘you’ll be fine, Dean is gonna help,’ breaking through the haze. As long as he concentrates on them, as long as he thinks of getting everyone out of the house, then maybe he can keep his sanity intact.

As it is, he feels a shadow looming over his back, dragging him two steps back for every step forward he takes. For eternity it seems, he attempts to leave the den and head for the bedroom, finally stepping foot into the eight by eight room. On the floor, Sam kneels, propping Castiel up halfway while Castiel foams bright blue at the mouth, his irises glowing iridescent in the scant light pouring through the window.

Sam looks up to him with red, wet eyes, not even bothering to hide the truth he knows is there; Dean’s stomach turns with the image. Sam’s bleeding from his ears now, holding up a half conscious Angel threatening to heave up his grace all over the floor. “He’s dying,” Sam says, choked.

 _We all are_ , Dean wants to say. _My stomach is rotting, and you’re about to crash if you lose anything else._

He can’t even hide the sentiment either, fear finally cracking his voice. “Take the bags,” he tells Sam. Dropping to his knees, he places the kerosene lamp on the floor and digs for his matchbook in his duffel. “I’ll get Cas. You just get out.”

“Dean,” Sam starts, but Dean drowns him out with the strike of a match.

Once again, the lamps roar to life, illuminating each corner of the room and revealing nothing but them and the storm. “We don’t have time,” Dean says, faking stern. It’s all he can do to keep the bile down, occupying his hands and giving out orders to whoever will listen. Hopefully that way, he can keep his promise and save Sam, at the very least. “I’ll drag him out if I have to, just take the bags and go.” When Sam doesn’t move, Dean barks, “I said go!”

“You’re being an idiot,” Sam hisses, blood spilling from between his lips.

Dean watches it drip in horror, reality finally setting in—They’re really dying, all because a creature they can’t even kill is destroying them from the inside, stealing whatever life they have in incremental yet escalating steps. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to go_ , he thinks, sucking in a breath to quell the anxiety thrumming through his veins. They were supposed to get home and crash, Dean was supposed to make breakfast the next morning and they were supposed to spend a day in front of the television. Not this—he’s not supposed to be watching his family die, all because he can’t save them once again.

Maybe it was always supposed to be this way, after all.

Castiel clings to his knee with haggard breaths, pure white beginning to drip from his nose when he rights himself, dragging his body to his knees. “Listen to him,” he manages, looking up to Sam with silver eyes. “Go. Take the… go, Sam.” Even if he wanted to say much else, Castiel doesn’t get the chance, ultimately collapsing to the floor beside the kerosene lamp, staring blankly at the ceiling.

No— _no_ , this isn’t it. “Don’t you dare die on me,” Dean hisses, fisting Castiel’s shoulder. “Sam,” he shouts, frantic, Sam still standing firm, rooted to the floor. Even without looking, Dean knows it’s there, lingering at his back, readying itself. “Go, Sam, go.”

 

Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s gone with their belongings before Dean can gather Castiel to his chest; he’s still breathing, thankfully, albeit slow and labored. “This ain’t how it’s s’pposed to go,” Dean manages, gritting his teeth. “You can’t take them from me, you hear me?”

‘ _I can_ ,’ it whispers close to his ear, something reminiscent of Castiel’s hand placed over where a scar once marred his flesh, so close yet so cold, dead. ‘ _And you’ll follow_.’

It takes all he has to grab the lantern at his side and swing, dragging the flaming mass through the blackened shadow with enough force to disperse it, at least temporarily. Castiel doesn’t wake despite the movement, yet he clings, fisting Dean’s shirt with rigid, frigid fingers, his veins purple, sickly. “C’mon,” Dean mutters and, hooking the handle of the lamp to a belt loop, heaves Castiel to his feet. Here, Castiel is six feet of limp muscle, his feet dragging when Dean hauls him bodily through the open door, into the humid, stagnant air of the hall.

It’s not until he reaches the foyer that he begins to struggle for breath, and not solely from Castiel’s weight. Through darkening vision, he can see Sam in the yard, shouting at him with his hands to his mouth, words Dean can’t understand. Everything is swimming, the ground beneath him circling. Slowly, he realizes that hands are clasped around his throat, robbing him of air, his consciousness following with it. “Sam,” he attempts to call, his words voiceless, fingers pressed over his windpipe. “Sa—”

Castiel gives way before Dean does, unfortunately, his limp body dragging Dean down onto the rotting floorboards while Dean gasps for whatever air he can get. Sam is running—Sam is coming. Sam will save them, but not soon enough.

 _I’m sorry_ , Dean thinks, reaching toward the doorway with a bloodied hand, a long list of grievances and apologies and confessions lingering on his tongue, dying away the second he sees white.

The glass of the lamp breaks when he hits the ground, and with the kerosene, the fire spreads.

-+-

Rain pelts Dean’s face relentlessly when he wakes, yet not as hard as he remembers. Through his fingers, he can feel dead grass and water, muddy earth slipping through his clenched fist. _You’re safe_ , his brain supplies, but his body won’t believe it, terror still gripping him. He’s supposed to be dead, but Hell wasn’t there. No, the most of what he saw, however faint it was, was a dark field in the middle of summer, mangled and barren, the landscape changing before his eyes, like it couldn’t exactly pinpoint where to even begin.

 _Heaven is horrifying_ , Dean thinks, and opens his eyes.

White clouds greet him, and he sucks in a breath, blinking away the rain falling into his eyes. “Dean,” he hears Sam say in haste, hands grabbing his shoulders with brute force.

For once, he revels in it and throws his arms around Sam’s neck, patting his drenched shirt with gratitude. “God, you don’t know how good it is to see you,” he laughs; no longer does his chest feel hollow, nor does his stomach churn with just the sight of blood and rot. For the most part, he feels… normal. Considerably better than the last two hours, but as normal as he can be. Back to his aching, potentially arthritic self. Normal is terrifying, in hindsight. To feel nothing other than occasional twinges, pain forgiven and replaced with nothing.

For now, he’s grateful.

“What do you remember?” Sam asks when they separate, falling back onto his ass, apparently uncaring of the mud soaking into his jeans. At least it’s not blood this time.

That’s the million dollar question, though. The last Dean can recall, he was dragging Castiel through the hall, and then nothing. Though, the smell of charred wood brings him back instantaneously, and it isn’t until he looks over Sam’s shoulder that he sees the house is fully engulfed in flames, reaching high up into the sky despite the diminishing wind and rain. Figures, the minute they escape, the storm lets up. “…Did I do that?”

Sam chuckles, running a hand through his hair, matted strands still sticking to his face. Blood no longer pours from his nose, the evidence washed away with the rain, leaving his clothes dirty but nothing else. _Thank God_ , Dean thinks, patting Sam’s face just for confirmation. They survived, by some miracle, and they’re sitting in the dirt with a smoldering house at their back, in the middle of Georgia.

Honestly, he’s had worse days.

“You broke the lamp when you fell,” Sam supplies. Briefly, he looks over his shoulder. “Had to drag you and Cas out. You’re a lot heavier when you’re knocked out.”

“Ha ha,” Dean mocks with an eye roll. Speaking of Castiel. “Where’s—” he starts, glancing to the side. Immediately, his stomach drops, eerily reminiscent to the last two hours, yet this time, solely from fear.

In the grass lies Castiel, prone, unconscious yet still glowing faintly through his eyelids. “Cas,” Dean croaks; it takes him a moment to realize he’s moving before he’s on his knees at Castiel’s side, a hand to Castiel’s cheek, two fingers pressed to his neck. There’s a pulse, but it’s faint—has it always been that way? Or did the thing win after all? “Cas,” Dean repeats, softer now, drowned out by the rain.

“I tried,” Sam says at his back. “Trust me, Dean. You guys have been out cold for fifteen minutes, and he hasn’t…” He stops to clear his throat, and no doubt he’s near tears. It’s not the same between he and Sam, their relationship with Castiel; while Dean thinks the world of him, Sam has always considered him a confidant, someone worth more than his own life. The longer he sits there, cradling Castiel’s face in his hands, the more Dean’s heart fractures, splitting at the seams.

“You’re not gonna die here,” Dean mutters, gritting his teeth. Still, Castiel’s pulse beats slow, growing fainter in the rain, until Dean feels nothing but cold skin and the last remnants of grace spilling from his lips. No, no, _no_. “Cas,” he hisses, pulling his hands away to press them under his breastbone. “Castiel, you’re not dying on us today, you understand?”

 _You’re not dying on me_.

He read an article about this once, took a class at Ben’s school during parent teacher night with the health teacher. But it’s been years since he’s had to try CPR, and never on a real person, flesh and bone and lungs trapped beneath ribs. Castiel is unresponsive despite the compressions, Dean following a rhythm in his head, all in search of a pulse. There’s nothing, even after forcing air into his lungs, Castiel as cold as ever. “Wake up,” he grunts, “You son of a bitch—”

Sam’s hand on his shoulder doesn’t stop him—nor does Sam actually physically jerking him away, shouting above the thunder, “It’s not gonna work, you’re not doing it right!”

“Let go,” Dean barks, frantic, resuming the motions, counting until Sam yanks at him again; this time, Dean fights back, taking a swing long enough to get Sam off of him.

Even harder now, Sam grabs him and pulls, dragging him a short distance away into the mud, flat on his ass. Realization hits him harder than the smell of smoke in the air, than Sam screaming in his ear about how irresponsible he is, about how he tried the same, and he couldn’t save Castiel. Castiel is dead, unbreathing, cold in the rain, and Dean can’t do anything to save him. “He’s not dead,” he mourns, hands shaking in his lap, “It’s not—It’s not supposed to be like this.”

They’re going home today. They’re going back to Kansas, and they’ll wake up in two days, and they’ll resume their dysfunctional life. He’s not going to bury Castiel today. He’s not going to…

Something retched twists in his gut when Castiel breathes—or rather, gasps, sucking in a lungful of humid air, afterwards gagging on water. “Castiel,” Sam stammers, rushing over before Dean’s brain can even catch up. Alive—Castiel is alive, and choking on rainwater, but alive and breathing.

Sam has him up on his side by the time Dean knees his way over, grass giving way under his weight. In their presence, Castiel reaches out to both of them, blinking up at the sky while he settles himself, head thumping back into the mud. “I saw Heaven,” he says, distant, and Dean’s heart aches with how foreign it sounds. “They wouldn’t take me back.”

“Rough,” Dean blurts before he can stop himself, patting Castiel’s hand on his knee. At least Castiel finds it amusing, his laughter pained. “Looks like you gotta stick with us.”

“Glad to have you back,” Sam says in all sincerity, grinning, hair obscuring his eyes. “You’ve got a home here with us, you know.”

“I know,” Castiel says, sighing through his nose. “…Can we leave?”

“Took the words right outta my mouth,” Dean chuckles.

Together, they help drag Castiel to his feet, just in time for the rain to lessen to a mist, no longer ice on Dean’s skin. Looking up, he spots the first patch of blue he’s seen in days. “Swear to God, this better not be the eye,” Dean complains, earning a laugh from Sam and a pitied shake of the head from Castiel.

Trudging through the mud with their bags slung over their backs, they make their way from the burning wreckage of a nightmare and through the forest, over felled trees and sheared branches, all to find the Impala halfway down the path where they left her, now covered in pine straw and sap. Hopefully, he can wash that off once they escape. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so happy to see your car,” Castiel says, almost awed; he throws himself in the backseat before Dean or Sam can even respond.

 _Me too_ , Dean thinks, patting Baby’s hood before popping open the driver side door. _Me too._

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting here for a few months waiting to be posted, so woo! I really had fun with this since I don't get to write horror a lot, so hopefully it's coherent enough. I'm also working on my DCBB and I'm about halfway through, so I PROMISE after that's done, I'll get back to shorter stuff. I swear, I've been slacking off on y'all. Thanks to my artist [Gale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite) for pinch hitting at the absolute last minute! Also much thanks to Lauren for betaing!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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